


Halves

by Aris



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Depression, Eating Disorders, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Other, Relapsing, Self-Harm, binge eating, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-06
Updated: 2017-12-22
Packaged: 2018-08-19 22:18:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8226523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aris/pseuds/Aris
Summary: A series of one shots I couldn't project onto any specific character   half asleep half aware a machine i dont care /half asleep half prepared i can't keep what's not there /i'm afraid i'm no fun i'm nothing i'm no one





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't really expect anyone to pay attention to these because people are mostly only interested in fandom works but thanks if you're reading this. Stay safe
> 
> (it's all stuff i need to get outta my head. sry if its 2008 cringe)

They didn’t used to make razor blades this strong.

He pushes down at the sides of the plastic lining, blades baring their sheathed fangs at him, and pushes a notch of a pair of scissors into the slight gap. The metal flexes dangerously, it’s middle bulging out, but remains firmly fixed down the ends. 

Fast

Efficient

_Safe_

All things the packaging had boasted, despite being no different to any other bare razor blade - despite, maybe, the cheapness. Five heads for the price of two. No weird gels or spongy handles, just flat tastelessly coloured plastic and cheap metal. It’s was no safer than the other cheap brands -- but apparently, safer than they had been a few years previously.

That razor he had cracked open by slamming a book on it. The handle snapped off and the caging fell apart into a collection of sharp, white pieces - the blades themselves undamaged. Whole. Picking up the treasures, he had cut open callouses on his fingers and smashed his knuckles into small pinpricks of residue. 

It had felt hard won, at the time. It wasn’t.

This rotten desire glares at him from it’s shielding, rust eating at its edges already. He bought them last month, casually thrown them in the basket with pasta and oregano. At the checkout, he didn’t look at them, didn’t calculate the extra money added on to his usual bill. They weren’t there, if he ignored them, there wasn’t a part of him that wanted them, if he ignored them.

Everything had been fine.

But he didn’t throw them away. Stowed away underneath his sink where those who might try to hold him responsible, help him, won’t find them. Guiltily stolen away, lurking alongside the tombstones weighing down his abdomen, tugging him down and down to his bed sheets each morning. Vaguely, he knows he should tell someone. Hey, how’re you? That’s good, I’m fine - oh you’re busy this weekend? That’s fine. Yeah it’s fine - don’t worry. Cue laugh. We can reschedule. It’s fine. Sorry - bye. 

He can’t bring himself to tell his friends, even in his head. After last time, the first time, with all the help, the support, the love and the relief and the stress. All of that and it wasn’t enough for him; what more can he demand from them? He eats it all up, wastes their time trying to climb to something higher than rock bottom, only to stumble every few steps and slip back to his shadowy start point. Pause. Demand to be lifted once again like a sobbing child.

And - he’s not on good terms with his therapist. Copying healthy happy people is easy, because therapists, psychologists don’t know everything - they don’t read your mind, they don’t note down every little behavior and pull every string together to tell you who you are. He has to cut through this facade to tell the truth - has to say, no actually - I - I’m not okay, and I was never okay. I don’t know how to be honest. Why won’t you read my mind? 

I don’t want a cure. I don’t want to recover, who am I without this?

Can I exist without it?

That’s what scares him the most; that there always could have been a way out. That he didn’t just have to push the thoughts into a box at the back of his mind, didn’t have to crush them down into bone dust. That he could have thrown them out completely, replaced their sores with other things, good things. Things that could fulfill him, things that wouldn’t whisper horrible half truths into his ears on sunny days where there was nothing in the world that could have possibly been wrong.

But it’s not possible to box it away now, he can’t help it spilling out like a sickly oil, coiling like a noose around his neck.

 _This isn’t happening_ won’t cut it anymore.

Something else will have to.


	2. Chapter 2

"You sure you’re okay?"

He can’t see the pack of store brand cakes at your side, over the phone and miles away, and all you can say is -

"Yeah, I’m sure. Just tired," because that’s the old age excuse everyone knows is a lie but pretends isn’t in the name of some aged etiquette or other. It’s the unsatisfied wives, the bullied children, the debt-ridden student. And it’s you, twenty five with chattering teeth and a deep, empty longing blooming inside you, feeding on the curve of your stomach and the softness of your skin.

Milky, soft, pliable skin, water tension over an ocean of fat. It’s delicate, like a cut could spill your bowels, and it feels like pure, unadulterated weakness. Vulnerable and fleshy, fallen fruit from Eden.

"Would I lie to you?"

And he sighs down the phone, as if the concept is so unbelievable. Your hands curl at the plastic packaging, and you wish it wasn’t such a harsh truth, wish you could live for just a minute as the person you are in his eyes. 

You hang up and a crinkle alerts you the package has made its way to your lap, like it’s a temptation and not an inevitability. It’s frustratingly white, clinical, even, And you rip off the plastic covering with ease, feeling the modern miracle screwed up in your fist.

 _Not hungry,_ but you’ll eat it anyway. You always do. Stomach sore and red and knuckles itching for a cut, you can always eat more. Always make room for the _precious gift_ of food. Even store brand fairy cakes with white icing, mouth watering and utterly repulsive all at once.

They don’t smell like anything, they never do, but you’re taking a bite before you think about it too much. You would have done this, anyway. No matter how long you thought about it. But it’s better to pretend it’s not happening and that there aren’t five more packets in the cupboard, six more in the car in case someone comes round and thinks to look.

You’re fine. You recovered. It’s nice to revisit old habits though, right? Like giving up alcohol and having a drink every few months with friends to celebrate something. You don’t need it, but it’s nice to have. It’s about portion control. You would know. But the others wouldn’t, wouldn’t understand, and there’s a coat thrown over the shopping bag in the car, in case someone checks. It’s not clear why someone would, but it’s not paranoia because you know you’re doing something wrong. It’s just a precaution, a safety net. Your therapist said it’s good to have those sometimes.

 _Just what the doctor ordered_ , and it’s cake number three and it tastes like nothing but nostalgia, dry and familiar and you almost choke on the crumbs, on the stiff, unappetizing icing. The packet protests from the pressure of your hand, nails digging through the flimsy material, and you drop it to the floor. The first of many, and you won’t count. 

You won’t.

A bolt of inexplicable terror and you get faster, swallowing and swallowing sickeningly plain cake that scratches the sides of your throat, pressing against them in pieces free from saliva, clumps choking you, warning you off. Tastes like blood, and at least that’s something more than stale chemicals and a clawing, sudden realisation that the empty in your stomach, the void at the end of your throat, can’t be filled; won’t be filled.

Jaw aching, stomach protruding, and you've never felt so hollow.


	3. Chapter 3

"I hate cliches," she says, hand curled around the cup of her tea "and you're a cliche,"

You dont say anything, stay quiet, and stare into your own cup - coffee, black. You think she's beautiful, and you told her that, but she won't swoon to an idiot like you. She doesn't believe in things like poetry, she doesn't believe that boys like you could ever be fit for a girl like her.

She's vibrant, alive, happy. She has a big family, a younger sister, an older brother - she's not loud, but she's not silent, either. She's not witty, she's smart. She knows a joke or two at nobody's expense, nothing bitter in the ring of her laughter, no added on sentences about wanting to die.

Your fingers flex and you reach for a cigarette, but she hits it to the ground. "Do you want to die young?" and then she looks into your faces, and she sighs "you do, right? You write poetry about it too, I bet." and she doesn't laugh then because it's not a funny subject and you're so used to tired chuckles, quiet amusement, that it takes you off guard. She doesn't want to die, she wants to live, and you think you have forgotten what that feels like.

The gold of her nails makes you want to remember. Instead of replying, you push the cigarette into the ground with your foot, digging it deep into the grass.

She sighs again and picks it up from the ground, letting it drop into the bin next to her. Her dark skin contrasts readily on the smudged white of the cigarette, and it captivates you for a moment too long. You want to see her smoke, but she doesn't care for that sort of crutch.

"You'll kill an innocent fox doing that," it makes you picture every cigarette butt you ever dropped to the ground, every pack you threw to the side and you dream up a percentage of a statistic - how many innocent animals you killed while trying to kill yourself. You don't think she'd care.

"Do you hate me?"

"You're not turning me into sad poetry,"

It makes you smile,

"I won't turn you into sad poetry." you promise, and there's a light feeling in your chest that means more than any depth.

"Good. I'm not fueling any of your sick thoughts," and - is that amusement? There's an upturn to her lips, definitely, and you want to burn your black coats and buy a rack of colour. She'd hate it if you changed for her, to get her, to have a chance. She doesn't believe in that sort of thing. She'd call you ridiculous, and somehow you're okay with that.

It doesn't matter what she thinks, in the end, because she doesn't swoon for boys like you. Doesn't swoon for anyone. You think that's beautiful, and beauty can't be owned, and you won't write a poem about it because there's too many pale skinned dark haired poets in the world, enough chain smokers and false philosopher pondering the meaning of life.

It's doesn't matter what she thinks, or why you're here, but sadness isn't everything.

It never was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i met a beautiful girl a few years ago n she didnt laugh at my jokes about wanting to die


	4. Chapter 4

_..._

_.._

_._

The text box collapses back to nothing, and you are left to stare at the last message again.

(Again, again.)

_I got a bit carried away, sorry babe. But it was nice seeing you, I hope we can meet up soon - text me back. That’s not how I usually am, promise_

and yours:

_be there in 5, running late_

Two weeks ago, and you wanted to be there, didn’t want to be late. It took two cigarettes and an anxiety pill - the special ones, for panic attacks only - to get out of bed and onto the streets. 

Now it takes two cigarettes and something more, a requirement that is never met, because you never do get out of bed. You’re always in a bed. A foggy, tired brain, fingers again your navel, bed-head, cold sweat and the sourness of bacteria festering against your tongue. Sheets between your legs and nothing else. Blinds drawn and quartered, fairy lights tangled in hair strands and pulled to your pillows.

 _I got a bit carried away, sorry babe_  

You catch them in your hand, plastic, bright, and they glow through the nothing in your hand. Your veins are purple, red, blue. Pretty on the inside. Pretty on the inside.

_That’s not how I usually am, promise  
_

Red LEDs down your thighs. Stars cutting into the palms of your hands. Above, dead cacti, barren, dusty. If you had to choose a word, which you always do, you’d choose husk. A protective outer layering. Dead and dry. Something that must be removed to eat the meat inside. 

A worthless exterior, once what was inside was lost. Once you have been chewed and grinded and spat back out, drenched in saliva and bruises and some sickly aftertaste. A seed that will never plant. Something that will never grow.

 _text me back_  

You never did.

 

 

(saved to drafts:

 

im in the hospital

i thought you were sad. do sad people do this?

i fucking hate you

if there was one person in the world i could kill, it would be you

i dont care if anyone finds out

 

why?

 

)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [have you seen me?](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YzytlGlkEPg)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> you think i’ll be the dark sky so you can be the star? i’ll swallow you whole


End file.
